The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier
by Heaven O. Waits
Summary: A poem I wrote.


~The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier~

The dragging and shuffling of feet echo off rock walls of hundreds of years. They glisten and trickle in the cold like a tiny rivers of tears.

The feeble dark shrouded figure scuffles past and slowly hunches down. Her face is covered by a thick gray hood but under it is a deep dark frown.

She walks to a crude desk lit by one candle flickering into the air. The old cloaked figure slowly spreads her smock and hunches in a rickety chair.

A frail and palsied hand appears and grabs a quill and dips it into a jar of thick black ink. Shoulders heave and a sigh wisps toward the candle making it shrink. Eery shadows now dance around the cavern walls as the woman begins to think.

The old dusty paper crinkles under a boney resting arm slowly forming words in slow jerking motion. She writes words like a witch casting her very last love potion. Deep inside she churns her mind a cauldron bubbling in devotion.

Today I slide back in my labyrinth away from those I know. I seek quiet solitary so to this ancient refuge I go.

It is here that I shall write to you, It is all that I can give. It is meager and not well done but I must tell you so I can live.

From deep within is where I bare my very soul to you and heaven above. If only my last breath I will tell you of all that I do so love.

The frail old hand begins to shake and dips the quill once more. Tiny age spots freckle the fingers as the feather moves on in lore.

Before you, I wept for lovers torn by fate and coveted those who swoon. I would hide in the shadows wearing my shroud while Romeos swore to the moon.

I watched in a meadow behind a castle two who would hug and dance. I watched this queen and a knight proclaim fervent vows under his shimmering lance.

I've seen a lovers salt tears spilling on her cold love's heart. I've witnessed her beating it begging him as she unraveled and fell apart.

I've heard the songs that lovers whisper in a warm and coyish ear.  
I've played the record over and over each and every passing year.

I've tasted the apple of the tree of life and relished in its bitter.  
I've felt the sting of cruel men's hands that made me shake and jitter.

I bear the marks deep down of scars like a gladiator from battle.  
I learned quickly that one should never ever bear the bruises of a tattle.

So when I managed to get away I would wear a shrewd disguise I never knew when that day could be my final great demise.

I became a nomad, a gypsy on a great and mighty quest.  
To search of real unwavering love at its golden and glimmering best.

I traveled far for a Don Quixote with windmills in his head.  
I sought in vain for my Casanova by a flashlight in my stead.

I've walked the long rows of green in Arlington to see a lonely man's tomb. I've burnt my sandaled feet in hot desert sands to see a a wildflower still in bloom.

I've wandered and treked above rugged mountains big and small.  
I am a lost soldier searching for a fragment in the wonder of it all.

I've sought it in the dead of night or in the pelting rain. It beckons me back to follow it just once more and then again.  
Some days I would glimpse Lancelot or Repunzel in a tower but once I approached them that sweetness had turned sour.

It was there in journey that I could find what I wished to see. It was there I did travel across the great blue seas for the fabled Mark Antony.

I sailed the continent, I stood on beaches and sank in my toes.  
My ears bled from the dead sad wail of shiny dark dressed widows.

I filled my shroud with legends of myth and of myrrh I hid them in my room under thick blankets of satin and fur.

I searched for love in all its glory and saw it in every land.  
That powerful force that guides us, that spurns us to be grand.

I gathered love tokens in my travels with locks of hair and perfumed sashes. I've seen just what a glance can do with the flitting of long eye-lashes.

I could not stop, no I travelled on into the night for just one more peek.  
In solace I saw a mother gently place a kiss on her new born baby's cheek.

I write this before I go our for yet another mustang ride.  
I write this so that perhaps you to can see what was my guide.

Look for things that makes you happy and hide from things that don't.  
Never listen to people who say shouldn't, wouldn't, won't and don't.

I wandered further the globe searching for the meaning of life.  
I needed these journeys to bandage the wounds of languid strife.

I know I always wrote of things like a dream within in dream.  
But if not for writing I would die of my own haunting scream.

Her hands now moves faster, the shaking begins to slow. The liver spots now start to fade and her face now gives a honey glow.

It was then I began to write of my journeys to far away lands.  
It was then a spirit gently touched the top of my withering hand.

It was you, for who you are I know and still don't know. But I write now so it may find you even in blankets of snow.

It is all that I know and all I can do but to share this glimpse of me.  
I hope somehow it is strong enough to brave the deep blue sea.

I hope it finds you and warms you at night like a steaming cup of tea.  
I want you to know, and I know that it seems like so little but that is what is me.

I was worn out, disgusted don't you see? I thought I had found all the love in the world so the next would be misery.

I kept buried in my writing of dreams but deep inside I felt lost. You managed to comfort me, you gave up sleep, gave up food, whatever it cost.

I would not listen as I should but I wrote and wrote some more. I kept thinking I could send another sweet letter to your humble door.

It is all that I know how to do it seems is write and write or dream or rant. It is what I know to do and is my usual long winded recant.

I hope you see that I think of you always in between the lines. It is there my inner voice trembles your name for now and for all times.

The body now straightens up as young hands now pull her hood. Long auburn hair spills out she whistles in cheery mood.

She rolls up the parchement paper tight and seals it in hot wax with care. The soldier of solitude presses the coiled paper to her lips leaving a faint print there.

She sentimentally ties it lovingly with a bright shiny red bow.  
She blows out the candle and whispers "to you this shall go."

She is smiling light hearted as she pulls opens up the tomb. She feels new, alive, and kicking like a baby from a womb.

She marches forward she marches to her own drum.  
The cheerful soldier marches on out toward the rising sun.


End file.
